


Time gets harder to outrun

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Banter, F/M, Speculative Post S4, Surprises, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John looked out the window again, uncertain. “I don’t know, precisely. Not any one thing. Just…He’s been off the grid down here for a month. Not taking cases. Slow to respond to texts when, in all the time I’ve know him, he’s been bloody glued to his mobile. I dunno, Mare. Something’s off.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time gets harder to outrun

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Look! I’m posting on the regular! Another variation on the same theme. Title comes from a song that, in my interpretation, is about recognizing mistakes and making the most of life while you can—[Wetsuit by The Vaccines](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZY4J3sVMmN0).
> 
> Happy summertimes, Northern Hemisphere (you too, Southern Hemisphere :)

* * *

The late morning sun was bright and the sky was blue. Not just blue, but the kind of clear, resplendent true blue that only seemed to occur one out of a hundred days, when the air washed sharp and clean, and when conditions were just right. Gentle, yellow-green hills ran parallel to the little VW as it sped along the A23, painting as idyllic a picture of the English countryside as ever there had been. 

“What troubles you, husband?”

John Watson turned his head, meeting his wife’s curious expression. “Hmm?” 

“Not that I mind girl time, but Gracie isn't much of a conversationalist—" ("Ahhwooo!" came a shout from the back seat, as exuberant as it was nonsensical.) "—And I'm beginning to get a bit concerned: You've not yet ranted once about speed traps or pollen or, I dunno, Crimea." 

"Crimea?" he repeated. 

"Whatever."

"When do I rant about Crimea?" 

"And, truly, John, truly, I cannot stomach another Taylor Swift song," Mary said, glancing in the rearview as she turned off toward the exit. 

"S'not like it's the middle of the bloody Napoleonic Wars," he muttered. "Crimea! And I don't rant." 

"Noooo," she agreed, though clearly she did not. "Something _is_ clearly on your mind, however." 

"I Just..." He sighed, trying to find the right words. 

"You worried?” 

“No,” John returned. A touch too quick, that. “No more so than usual.” 

“You’re familiar with my ‘Oh, yes, I’m obviously buying this’ face, yes?” 

“Right. Yeah. Okay. I am. A bit. More than usual.” 

Mary glanced over her sunglasses. “What are you thinking?” 

John looked out the window again, uncertain. “I don’t know, precisely. Not any one thing. Just…He’s been off the grid down here for over a month now. Not taking cases. Slow to respond to texts when, in all the time I’ve know him, he’s been bloody glued to his mobile. I dunno, Mare. Something’s off. Just wondering what he's been up to, I guess.” 

She looked over to the passenger seat. “Worried rehab didn’t take?” 

“Honestly...Has it? Ever?” 

Mary reached out, squeezed his hand. “Have a little faith.” 

John forced a smile. “I’ve eternal hope. Is that enough?” 

In the back, Gracie drooled and squawked with happiness.

* * *

Twenty minutes off the motorway, a long gravel road lead toward the coast. Green, flowering fields were interrupted by oak, birch, myrtle. The gravel road lead over a stream. In view was a small, two-story cottage. A red-brick chimney capped off the A-frame slated roof. It was fenced in by green hedges on one side, the suggestion of a wrapping garden, a low-slung stone wall that stretched along the property lines. Beyond could be seen a thin sliver of white-capped sea. The breeze smelled of earth and ocean, of botanicals and salt. 

John stepped out of the car as Mary pulled them to a stop. He breathed deeply. Frowned. 

Two figures in head-to-toe beige coats were gesticulating wildly in the yard. 

“Who is that with him?” He asked. 

“Who indeed,” Mary replied, amused. 

Voices clarified. 

“Sherlock,” came a gently reproachful voice. 

“Please?” 

A peal of laughter. “Not a chance! Besides, John and Mary are here. I think they’ll prefer to have an adult beverage and sit on the beach instead of trap rodents.” 

“Is that Molly?” John said aloud. 

“Yep.” 

As he and Mary approached, it became clear that Sherlock and Molly were making their way back from the beehives Sherlock kept. They wore long beekeeping attire, of which Molly’s appeared at least three sizes too large. The sleeves were folded over several times and the hem hung below her thighs. She waved, brushing back the long netting of her hat. “Hi!” 

"Bees doing well?" 

"Yes. As are the squirrels." 

“Squirrels?” 

“They keep damaging the hives. And eating the birdseed,” Sherlock said. 

“There are traps for that,” Mary pointed out as Sherlock pecked her cheek. He threw his hat on a porch chair, bursting through the screen.

“He prefers to admonish them,” Molly said, wry. She gave Mary and Gracie each a kiss, did the same for John, leading them inside. The cottage was bigger than it appeared on the inside—high ceilings, a large kitchen and dining space, cozy sitting room situated around a fireplace presently be used as storage space for shoes, books, a tennis ball. A yoga mat? 

John turned over his shoulder. “Didn’t know you’d be down…” he started to say. But as he did, Molly shrugged out of Sherlock’s extra beekeeping outfit. She hung the coat on a hook in the hall. John’s eyes were drawn to the small swell of her belly. 

“Hey! Molly!” He exclaimed without thinking. 

Everyone turned to look at him. 

“Subtle, John.” Mary said, exchanging looks with Molly. 

“I mean,” he sputtered. He couldn’t help looking pointedly between her eyes and her midsection. “Sorry. I just. Wow. You kept that quiet!” 

“Yeah,” Molly admitted. She dipped her chin down, spreading her fingers across her little belly. “Wasn’t sure when to bring it up.” 

“You’ll forgive her not running straight to nosy acquaintances straight off,” Mary said. Her face was bright, beaming. She handed Gracie off to Sherlock and gave Molly a hug that spoke of feminine sorcery and sisterhood. They tippled in a little circle. Mary said something low in Molly’s ear that made them both cackle with laughter. 

“Hello, Grace,” Sherlock was saying to his seven-month-old. 

“Buh. Loch!” 

“Oh? Hungry, are you? Come along, then. Molly’s been to the shops, so I’m sure we’ll find something.” 

John suppressed the desire to roll his eyes and followed them into the little kitchen. Miracle upon miracles, it actually appeared to be stocked with edible components. A bowl of fruits sat on the counter. A colander draining fresh-washed greens was nestled in the sink. A large bag of coffee beans perched beside a french press and grinder. Rehab had clearly left some kind of impression on Sherlock. The whole of the downstairs was tidy. Not only that, but clean. _Properly_ clean. Not so much as a layer of dust or clump of sand to be found. 

John leaned on one side of the island counter while Sherlock held up a series of stone fruits before Gracie. “Apricot?”

“Guh,” Gracie said. 

“Indeed. I detest them too. Strawberry?”

“Dah dah dahhh.” 

“Excellent. John, the cutting board?” He set Gracie beside him on the counter, where she (atypically) sat stock still at Sherlock’s side, clutching his sleeve and displaying her advanced developmental abilities to a tee. He had little doubt Sherlock would take credit for them. Rolling his eyes, John doubled back into the hallway to go help Mary collect their things from the boot...and almost ran into Molly, who stood directly before him in the doorway. They locked eyes. 

Without realizing what he was saying until the words were out of his mouth, he said, “Ah so, can I ask…?” 

“Ask…?” Molly repeated. Her eyes sparkled, knowing full well what he meant. Christ. She was spending too much time with Sherlock. 

“Well, I don’t mean to be indelicate, ahm.” He scratched his ear. “And I mean, if you’d rather not, or maybe you don’t...Well, shit. I've made this incredibly awkward.” 

"Usually my job."

"Tsch!" he scoffed. 

The corners of Molly’s mouth tripped upward. “John, are you attempting to ask me about my _baby daddy_?” 

He nodded briskly. “Yes, I am largely failing to, yes.” 

Molly smirked. 

“Not that it's really any of my business if you and Tom, or, you know, whoever...” He sighed. He really wasn't doing this well.

Molly winced. “Thing is, Tom wasn’t _actually_ my fiancé.” 

He gave her a quizzical look. 

“Bodyguard,” Molly clarified. 

“Oh. Right. Course. Bodyguard.” 

“And his name was Connor.” 

“Connor. The bodyguard.” 

“Yeah. Sorry. Part of the whole…” she waved her hand in such a way as to indicate _You know, that thing where I helped the Holmes brothers defraud Britain into thinking Sherlock was dead, hahaha wasn't that fun and by fun I mean completely, soul-crushingly awful for everyone?_. "Not even Sherlock knew that bit. So don't feel too bad." 

“So, not not-Tom slash Connor.” 

“Not not-Tom slash Connor,” Molly confirmed. “Though,” Molly added, “he is a friend of yours, actually.” 

_Oh!_ John thought. “Really?” 

She nodded, smiling. “Yeah.” 

“I don’t…” he sputtered. “What, have you secretly been dating Greg?” 

Molly’s lips briefly disappeared as she suppressed a giggle. “Ahm, no. Not Greg.” 

She waggled her eyebrows, challenging him. 

He paused, squinting as he tried to think. “Ah, I’m not sure I know many other single... Hang on—It's not Phil Anderson, is it?” 

A hand shot out to place a glass of what appeared to be lemonade in Molly’s hands. “What about Anderson?” 

“We’re playing a game,” Molly said. “I gave him a clue, and now John is trying to deduce who has knocked me up.”

Sherlock whirled on him, managing to look threatening even with a small child on his hip. “Anderson? _Anderson!_ ” He glared. “Apologize to Molly. Now.” 

And it clicked. 

The orderliness. The presence of fruit and coffee. Yoga mat. Molly Hooper. _And her baby_. 

All the shocks that had come from Sherlock's role in his life, a montage of the bizarre and the surreal—body parts and violin and assassins and psychotics and sweet, lovely parents; the madness and insanity and years and secrets. After all that, when faced with this— _this!_

His mind. 

Went. 

Blank. 

“...he done this before?” Molly was asking, nervous. 

“No, not that I’m aware,” Mary said, bags at her side, grin on her face. _Figured it out, have you?_ her smile said.

“Bit unnerving.” 

“John?” Mary prompted. 

“Yeah,” he said, coming back to himself. 

“You okay?” 

“You?” He managed, looking to Sherlock. “You and Molly?” 

Sherlock leaned against the counter beside Mary and Gracie, looking down at them. Bits of strawberry mush and juice stuck to his collar. At John’s question, the edge of his mouth lifted in the barest trace of a smile. Sherlock glanced at Molly, who smiled fully in return before looking back to John. “Yes.” 

John bolted forward. 

“Oh, good, we're hugging.”

* * *

It was well after dinner and into the quiet of the evening when John switched off the light from the loo. He was about to step into the guest room when a snippet of conversation caught his ear. 

“–obviously, Molly,” Molly parroted. 

He glanced through the sliver of doorway into the master bedroom. 

Splayed out across the bed, head laying adjacent to Molly’s hip, Sherlock rumbled his deep, oddly infectious laugh. “You’re a very annoying woman.” 

“Aren’t I just?” Molly replied. She trailed her fingers through his hair. 

Sherlock said something that made her laugh again. She tossed her book aside. Curled into him further, leaned down to kiss him. 

John ducked away. As much of a shock it was, as overwhelming, it was also...good. He was hopeful. 

Needing some air, he padded down the stairs, dashed some whiskey in a coffee mug and wandered out to the back lawn. He sat along the stone wall, looking out over the dunes to the sea. 

Lights blinked out over the water. A brighter one shone from the headlands to the northwest. Guiding the adrift home. 

“How long?” John asked. 

“Longer than you might have expected,” Sherlock admitted, coming to sit by his side. His own mug of whiskey sat in his hand. “Not as long as we might’ve had I not been…”

“A touch shortsighted?” John ventured. 

“‘An ignorant, tactless dick’ I think is how you put it.” 

John tipped his head side to side. If the shoe fits. 

“But yes.” Sherlock swallowed. “After the whole…ordeal…I saw things differently. Molly’s requirements were straightforward. She would not risk her heart or future unless I was clean.” He looked up. “All the reasons I used, stack-ranked against the one reason not to…” He looked down, was quiet for a moment. “Suffice it to say, it was not a difficult decision.” 

He couldn't believe it, still. "This is what you've been up to." He shook his head. “You’re having a kid. You.” 

Sherlock looked at him, a smile blooming. “A boy.” 

John felt a rush of pride. “Yeah?” 

Sherlock smiled fully. “Yeah.” 

They laughed to themselves, and each other. 

“And Molly? Any plans there?” 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. Reached in his pocket, tossed a small green box to John. “Mycroft sized it while I was in rehab. I’ve had it since...just waiting for the right moment.” 

Opening it, John let out a whistle. Simple band with raw gemstones of some sort. Emerald or sapphire. Totally unique. 

"Perfect," John said, handing it back. “Need any help? I feel I should return the favor, seeing as you were so beneficial during my proposal...” 

“Think I’m good,” Sherlock returned, tucking it back in his pocket. 

“So Mycroft. Even the Ice Man is on board.” 

“His exact words were ‘Don’t cock it up. You will not get another chance.’ Not wrong. I suspect he has more affection for Molly than he lets on, though in truth, it could just be her baking. One never truly knows with him.” 

“Right.” 

“He could be more aggrieved by the loss of any potential biscuits than my future happiness, but he's supportive all the same. ” 

John grinned, still not quite over it. He might never be, he decided. “Your parents must be over the moon.” 

“God, it’s insufferable.”

“Cha! Isn’t it the worst?” John said, though he meant the complete opposite. 

“Terrible,” Sherlock answered, though he, too, meant the complete opposite. 

The ocean rushed in and out, just beyond the dunes. Wind blew in, caught with the scent of wild beach roses, heather, and laurel. “I have you to thank for this. For Molly.”

He gave Sherlock a look, confused. “But...You knew her. Long before me.” 

“I knew Molly Hooper, yes. I saw her talent and her sincerity and attraction. I also used her feelings to my advantage while keeping her at arm’s length.” Sherlock looked out toward the horizon. “Had you not chanced friendship with me—an arrogant, obstinate, troubled drug addict with magnetic attraction to the criminal elite—I would not have gained the perspective I have now. Known how a person can change you. How much they can mean. In short, I would not have her, not them, not us.” 

He looked to John. “So thank you. For your friendship,” Sherlock paused, the words difficult, miraculous. “For my family.” 

“My pleasure.” _Oh, you ass. I love you, too._

They looked out over the water, accepting this strange new facet to their camaraderie. 

"We’re calling him Hamish.” 

“Nah, you’re not.” 

“Nah, we’re not. Worth a try though.” 

“Yeah.” He put his arm around his best friend’s shoulder. “To the vest best of times—past, present, future.” 

He held up his mug. Sherlock touched his own to it. “The very best.” 

A comfortable silence descended. From an open window came the sweet, inebriating cocktail of Mary’s laughter and Molly’s, and Gracie’s excited verbalizations, too. John absorbed the moment, feeling the weight of personal history, and the fearful joy of new paths being forged. The possibilities echoed forth, and he reveled in the magic of their potential. 

“Though it would seem the first few months are fairly difficult,” Sherlock confessed. 

“Yeah, no, it’s hell,” John confirmed, sipping his whiskey and nodding his assent. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> In case you weren't sure, that theme is: Shut up about babies.


End file.
